A YA for Readers & 'ritas
On the precipice of her sixteenth birthday, the last thing
lone wolf Cat Crawford wants is an extravagant gala thrown
by her bubbly stepmother and wellβmeaning father. So
even though Cat knows the family's trip to Florence, Italy,
is a peace offering, she embraces the magical city and all
it offers. But when her curiosity leads her to an unusual
gypsy tent, she exits . . . right into Renaissance Firenze.
Thrust into the sixteenth century armed with only a
backpack full of contraband future items, Cat joins up with
her ancestors, the sweet Alessandra and protective
Cipriano, and soon falls for the gorgeous aspiring artist
Lorenzo. But when the muchβolder Niccolo starts
sniffing around, Cat realizes that an unwanted birthday
party is nothing compared to an unwanted suitor full of
creeptastic amore.
Can she find her way back to modern times before her
Italian adventure turns into an Italian forever?
Excerpt "I thought I'd teach you a dance from where I come from," I
tell him. "One that's much easier than that
multiβstep mess inside."
I place my left hand on Lorenzo's shoulder and slip my
right one into his. I pause to listen to the music floating
over the tinkling voices and bubbling fountain, and begin
counting the threeβbeat tempo. "One, two, three. One,
two, three."
I stand still, only my head moving, slowly nodding with my
words so he can hear the rhythm.
When his head begins subtly bobbing with mine, I show him
how to add his feet. He takes a tentative step forward with
his left while I step back with my right, then we side
step, close, and repeat the steps with our other feet, all
while I lightly whisper the beat count.
The breeze picks up, blowing my skirt and skimming my veil
across the back of my neck. Chills run down my spine, but
the warmth coursing through my veins from being in his arms
provides a delicious contradiction.
Lorenzo continues nervously darting his eyes to our feet,
but he is dancing. As he relaxes into the movement, his
shoulders rising and falling with the steps, the confidence
he always seems to exude creeps back on his face, and he
tightens the hold around me. Our faces are kissably close,
our lips a hairs breadth away from touching. I stare into
the chocolate depths of his eyes and the rest of the ball
fades away. The only music guiding our steps is my light
whisper and the erratic rhythm of our breathing. Time
slows. Lorenzo grins.
"I think you got it," I say breathlessly, running my hand
along the soft fabric of his shoulder, feeling the
rockβhard muscles underneath.
My body curls inward, pressing against his. The proper form
for the waltz is a straight spine and shoulders back, but
if there was ever a time to break the rules, this is it.
Start Reading MY SUPER SWEET SIXTEENTH CENTURY Now
 Sweet Life MY SUPER SWEET SIXTEENTH CENTURY
#1.0
β’ September 2011
 MY NOT SO SUPER SWEET LIFE
#2.0
β’ May 2014
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